I watched her disappear through the automatic doors.
The encounter lingered with me long after I paid for my groceries.
Life could be unbearably unfair sometimes.
I hoped that little cake would bring her mother at least a moment of happiness.
A few minutes later, I walked out into the parking lot carrying my bags.
That’s when I felt something unusual in my jacket pocket.
At first, I assumed it was my keys.
But when I reached inside, my fingers closed around cold metal.
Confused, I pulled it out.
The moment I saw it, the world seemed to stop.
It was an old silver watch.
My mother’s watch.
My breath caught.
I nearly dropped it.
The vintage watch had vanished sixteen years earlier—the same day I stormed out of my childhood home after the worst argument of my life.
The day I stopped speaking to my mother.
The day I convinced myself I would never forgive her.
My hands shook as I turned the watch over.
Attached to it was a folded piece of paper.
Inside was a photograph.
A woman and a little girl stood outside a yellow house, both squinting into the sunlight.
I recognized the house immediately.
My childhood home.
My throat tightened.
Slowly, I flipped the photo over.
Four words were written on the back in faded blue ink.
Find her. Forgive her.
My mother’s handwriting.
Everything around me blurred.
I sank onto a nearby bench, unable to breathe properly.
Questions flooded my mind.
How did that girl have this?
Why did she know about my mother?
And why now?
Then realization struck.
The girl.
I jumped to my feet and scanned the parking lot.
Near the far corner, beside an aging sedan, she was still there, clutching the cake.
When she saw me running toward her, tears immediately filled her eyes.
